


The Portrait

by Artster



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence, i tried to make it as non graphic as possible, mostly gore and scars, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:54:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artster/pseuds/Artster
Summary: What did the cult of Hades make Oscar Wilde dream in Damascus?
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	The Portrait

**Author's Note:**

> Full warning! I tried to make the horror-y parts as non-graphic as possible, but I don’t trust myself to be a judge of that, so if you’re sensitive to that stuff, proceed with caution!

Oscar Wilde was sitting in a chair in his old study. It wasn’t really much of a study, more a walk in closet that Oscar had filled with books, and a small desk. His boyfriend at the time had been confused when Oscar had asked to convert the closet, and when asked why, he simply said “All great writers have studies. And besides,” he threw his boyfriend a wink “I think it’d look good with read walls.” They’d gotten a good laugh out of that. Now, Oscar was idly thumbing through some study on Necromancy by a woman named Shelley- something that could be interesting but Oscar was finding rather dry- not really paying attention when he noticed something odd.

The mirror that had hung on the wall opposite had seemed to change to a painting. A portrait, more specifically, though of whom Oscar wasn’t sure. Possibly the former owner of the house? Whoever the subject of the portrait was, he was very handsome. He seemed... perfect. That wasn’t unusual of course, the point of portraits tend to be to show the subject as such, but there was something different about this portrait. Something... off.

Wilde brushed it off, and attempted to get his mind back to his book. Time passed, though how much time was hard to say, when his eyes once again drifted up to the portrait. He immediately saw the spot. On such a perfect face, even the smallest blemish was jarring and unsightly. It was a small spot of red on his temple, a spot that Oscar was sure wasn’t there before. He got up from the desk, positioning himself directly in front of the portrait and stopped, seemingly frozen in place as a red substance that was not quite the right consistency to be paint dripped slowly down to the man’s chin. Then there was another blemish, just below his eye, an ugly purple-yellow wound opened up before his eyes, starting to drip as well. Looking closer, Wilde noticed that the man had also begun to age. New wounds kept opening, ugly and horrible and never healing or fading as the man got older before his eyes. Then again, there was only so long before there was less face than scars.

The very last scar had never shown before. A large gash on where the man’s cheek would have been that refused to be lost in the mass of scar tissue, sticking out like it was glowing. 

That scar may have been on another man’s face, but it was all too familiar to him.

He knew the scar as his own.

Oscar backed away, slowly, until he felt his back lean into the desk. He wanted to mover further, go around the desk and dash for the door, but by now he knew couldn’t if he tried. He could only stand there paralyzed as the... thing in the painting slowly and deliberately started to crawl out of the painting, and down the mantel. It fell on its back, before slowly staggering to its feet. 

Then Wilde remembered his voice. He wasn’t defenseless, far from it. This creature, whatever it was wouldn’t lay a finger on him. He took a deep breath, preparing a spell, a song. 

And his throat caught. He tried again to sing, but any words or sound died on his lips. Panicked and watching as the scarred man shambled towards him, he started stumbling backwards, and gasping like a fish out of water as he desperately tried to do something, anything to defend himself. 

He nearly tripped over his own feet. The thing kept dragging its feet towards him as some part of Wilde said this isn’t supposed to happen it’s supposed to end now why is this still happening? His back was now against the door, and he blindly reached for the doorknob, but it seemed for all the world that there never was a doorknob. 

The monster was so close now, a mere few feet away as it leaned in closer. The scar on its cheek still visible and taunting as it slowly lifted what must’ve once been a hand, and traced a line on Oscar’s cheek. It made a gurgling sound that must’ve been laughter. 

And then it lunged.

Oscar woke up screaming. He took a minute to center himself. He wasn’t in his old house, he was in Japan, in the inn. He’d actually gone to sleep in his own bed, which was nice. It didn’t take long before Wilde abandoned the idea of trying to go back to sleep for getting a drink from the bar downstairs.

The prestidigitation of his makeup is less to look presentable and more to prove to himself he can still do it.

He had taken maybe 2 sips from his sake when Zolf clunked down the stairs, a grumpy expression on his face. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Oscar asked.

“Not with you screaming like that!” Zolf grumbled, “Probably woke half the village up.”

Oscar mumbled an apology, pointedly not looking at Zolf as he poured himself a drink. They sat there for a while, and the whole time Wilde refused to make eye contact with Zolf. Finally the silence was broken.

“Do you wanna talk about it...?” Zolf asked. Wilde finally looked at him. He had his best “I’m trying to be supportive but also not intrusive” face on (which he had thoroughly cultivated by now). Wilde looked back down, not knowing really how to respond. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, until Wilde had finally made up his mind.

“I had a nightmare,” he said simply, his words jarring the still air.

Zolf raised an eyebrow, “What... was it about?” he asked.

Oscar shifted in his seat, “it’s...”

“It’s what? Come on, Wilde. I’m more than acquainted nightmares.”

So Oscar told him. About the study, the beautiful man turned to scar mass, his own powerlessness, and finally about his own scar on its face, and how close it had gotten to him. “I thought that the nightmares where from the cult of Hades... maybe they still are, but that last part has never happened before. I mean... I felt it when he touched my cheek,” Wilde finished. He numbly realized he was stroking the scar on his cheek. He hardly realized when he did that anymore.

Zolf leaned back in his chair and was silent for a moment before finally saying “Ok. Not gonna lie, I’m a little out of my depth here.” Oscar gave him his very best unimpressed look. “Oh don’t give me that! I’m trying my best to help you, you ass.”

“Well I can’t very well do what you did and yell at a god until he goes away,” Wilde snapped back. He felt a bit bad for bringing up Zolf’s blazing row with Poseidon, but Zolf seemed only slightly hurt by the comment as he responded.

“Of course not. That worked for me, how you deal with this will be different from mine,” he explained. Wilde rolled his eyes.

“And how do I deal with it? Sing?” The last word dripped with venom. Zolf held up his hands placatingly.

“I don’t think that’s the solution. Trying to go at this head on... seems like a bad idea. I don’t know what you could do to cope, besides write an editorial-“ Zolf stopped suddenly, a look of realization on his face. And then, slowly, his face broke into a grin. 

“What?” Oscar asked, eyeing Zolf suspiciously.

“You’re a writer,” he said simply, his smile could be heard in his voice.

“Yes well, all the articles, satires, and editorials sort of gave that away, didn’t it?” Oscar responded, his old sass returning.

“No, no, no you don’t get it. You’re a writer. So write your nightmare. Take and remove bits as you see fit, make it yours,” Zolf gave another big grin, “Make it just a story.”

Wilde went silent before going wide-eyed and whispering “That might actually work.” 

Zolf offered to stay with him longer if he wanted, but Wilde insisted that the talk helped, and that he could go back to bed. After he was sure Zolf was back in his room, Wilde headed up, hoping that the talk really did help. 

It hadn’t as much as he’d liked. The moment he saw the bed his stomach lurched at the thought of going back to sleep. The nightmare was still too fresh in his mind to let him rest easy, so he decided to try Zolf’s idea. He took out his notebook, an old moleskin he’d had for years that had only two pages of random notes that Wilde could hardly remember making. He turned to a blank page, and his pen hovered over the paper as he thought about what to use from his dream.

The portrait had to be an important part of the story of course, though perhaps it would make more sense to focus on the man in the portrait. The scarring and injury was perhaps a little much, but that aging aspect... that he could work with. How would the beautiful man and the aging picture relate-

Oh. Oh. A small smile made its way to Oscar’s face as pieces fell into place. He had an idea, one that sucked the fear from his nightmare and turned it into flowing ink cursive and beautiful words he could never sing. All that could be heard in the room was the scratching of pen on paper as Oscar Wilde wrote:

“The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door a The heavy scent of lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.”

**Author's Note:**

> Second post and I make a character suffer. XD I hope you enjoyed this one! I really liked the idea when I came up with it, and I’m fairly happy with how it turned out!


End file.
